


A Matter Most Delicate

by glyphsbowtie



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arthur is a sheriff, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexuality, False Identity, Gay John Marston, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-09-15 02:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16924899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glyphsbowtie/pseuds/glyphsbowtie
Summary: Arthur Morgan is the sheriff of a nowhere little town, living a boring and frustrating existence when a horse rides into the streets carrying a wounded man. The man claims to be a wanderer named Jim Milton, and as Arthur nurses him back to health, he starts to develop real feelings for him- even though he's starting to suspect that Jim isn't telling the entire truth.





	1. A Bloody Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I have about fifty other things I should be writing in the rare moments I have to do any fic recently, but I could not get this one out of my head. No beta reader, so mistakes are mine.

**December 18, 1898**

Arthur Morgan wakes up with a bad fucking hangover. He lets out a loud groan as he cracks his eyes open reluctantly, the pounding pain in his head not helped by the wailing of the woman on the other side of the cell bars. He appears to have fallen asleep with his hat tipped down low over his head, his shirt off and- thankfully- a pair of trousers still on.

“Sheriff Morgan!”

He blinks, horribly aware of the sour taste of vomit on his tongue. Sitting up, he can see that the woman standing outside his cell is Miss Grant. Or maybe it's Miss Green. Or possibly Miss Taylor. There are a lot of pretty, serious young women in this town. The current one has a pale, grim face. There's snow clinging to her bonnet.

“Mornin’, Miss,” he manages.

She is staring at his scarred torso, her expression the confused blend of desire and disgust he's used to from these people. He clears his throat, and she looks up at his face.

“Come quick, Sheriff,” she implores, wringing her hands dramatically. “There's so much blood!”

“Blood…?” Arthur asks, but she's already turning and heading back out.

He sighs. In the corner of the cell where he sleeps, there's a small crate of his belongings, his boots on top. He reaches for them, pulling them on quickly, listening for gunshots outside. He can't hear any, but he can hear a commotion. It's difficult to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Living here is relatively dull, but the townspeople are very melodramatic.

Arthur strides out, shirtless and queasy, heading out of the sheriff's office into the frosty, silver light of the morning. It's too cold to have his shirt off, and this adds to his bad mood, but his complaints die in his throat when he sees what the despairing crowd is gathered around.

The horse is whining loudly, a slumped, lifeless, bloody man slung across his back.

Typically, the townspeople of East Wood are standing around uselessly. Some of the women are crying. The men are muttering furiously. Their attention moves from the bloodied body to their half-naked, hungover sheriff, and some of the women shriek. Arthur doesn't bother hiding his eye roll.

“Can't you people do fucking anything without me?” he mutters, mostly to himself, but some of the men closest to him hear and look scandalised.

He pushes past them and heads to the horse, which cries out and shrinks away.

“Easy,” Arthur murmurs. He's always been good with horses. “Easy, boy.”

The horse settles, and Arthur places a soothing hand on his side, stroking for a second before placing his other hand on the back of the body. It's warm to touch. This man is still alive.

“Fucking idiots,” Arthur hisses, referring to the townspeople. He tips the man's head back.

He has a scarred face. He is younger than Arthur, but he's clearly a man, not a boy.

And he's in a bad, bad way.

Arthur lifts him. He's smaller than Arthur, but still a large, muscular man, although he has a narrow waist which Arthur slips his arms around. He smells of dirt and old blood.

The gathered crowd gasp as Arthur moves with the man back towards the safety of his office. He rolls his eyes again.

“Somebody hitch this feller's horse,” he orders. “And send us the doctor.”

Inside the prison, he enters the cell opposite the one he uses as his makeshift quarters and gently tips the man onto the cot.

He steps back to survey his new resident. His shirt, once white, is dark red with blood. He has long, lank black hair framing a narrow, stubbled face. There's a revolver and several knives on him.

Clicking his tongue, Arthur tears the man's shirt open, revealing the source of the blood: an enormous, brutal bullet wound. A quick slice of Arthur's knife relieves the man of his shirt entirely, and Arthur gropes at the back of his shoulder blade, feeling relief when he locates the exit wound.

Warm, clammy, strong fingers latch around his wrist suddenly, and he stares down at the man, whose eyes are open and staring at him. They are dark and wild, panicked and confused.

“Hey,” Arthur soothes automatically. “Easy. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

The man opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a dry choking sound.

“You’ve been shot,” Arthur tells him. “Do you remember that?”

The man blinks and swallows. “Yes,” he manages, roughly.

“I’m gonna get you some help, but you need to rest.”

Arthur’s wrist is still held in the tight clamp of the man’s fingers. He looks down at the tanned, lean torso of his visitor and notices a lot of scars and bruises; so many, in fact, that he rivals even Arthur himself.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“John,” the man chokes out.

Then he passes out again.

“Okay, John,” Arthur says, eyeing the wound with a frown. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”

* * *

Doctor Turner rather likes Arthur, which is more than can be said for most of the inhabitants of the town. He even greets Arthur with a heavy, fond clap on the shoulder before inspecting John.

“Fairly clean wound,” he observes, peering over the rim of his spectacles with a frown. “No sign of infection. He’s clearly been outside for a few days. He is malnourished, but I think he’ll be fine.”

Arthur feels a pang of relief. It sits uncomfortably in his chest, and he clears his throat, awkwardly.

The doctor turns to him and sighs. “Get dressed, Sheriff. You look dreadful.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Arthur says. He supposes it’s true. He’s still only got on his trousers and boots. The beard on his chin is getting thick again. The queasiness from the hangover hasn’t subsided yet.

Doctor Turner nods. “You need to clean him up, my boy. Get him some soup.”

Arthur snorts. “Where shall I get soup from? My own fine kitchen?”

“You’re the one who insists upon living in the jail, my boy. You know as well as I do that we have plenty of nice houses you could move into.”

Shrugging, Arthur shakes his head. “I ain’t a house kind of guy.”

Doctor Turner makes an exasperated sound. “I’ll have some soup sent over.”

“Sure. Thanks, Doc.”

The doctor leaves, and Arthur sighs. He should get dressed. There’s a slight chance there might actually be a crime in this boring little town today. Maybe two women will come to blows over the same suitor.

He spends his days alone in here, mostly, cleaning his guns and waiting for something to happen. It looks like it will be another day of that.

John makes a long, low groan in his sleep.

Arthur smiles, humourlessly. At least he’s not alone today.


	2. A Welcome Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos on the first chapter of this!

**December 19, 1898**

Arthur leans back in his chair and exhales smoke from his cigarette, glancing over at the still form of John. The guy hasn't woken up since his brief panic yesterday, but he looks a lot better.

It took an hour or so to clean him up yesterday; Arthur even washed his long, thick hair carefully. Beneath the layer of grime and blood, John is… well, sort of ugly, really, with that scarred face, but there's something charming about him. Arthur can't stop thinking about his dark, intense eyes.

He tries hard to avoid indulging this line of thinking.

The door opens, letting in a swirl of powdered snow and Charles Smith. “Arthur!” Charles exclaims fondly.

Arthur stands up. “Everythin’ okay, Charles?”

“Sure. The O'Driscolls are twenty five miles away and showing no signs of interest in East Wood.” Charles gives a small smile. “Not that I blame them after what you did to them last time.”

“Don't remind me. That's how I wound up stuck in this backwards little hellhole.”

Charles snorts. “There's not a gun to your head,  _ Sheriff.” _

That's true. Arthur clears his throat, uncomfortable.

“I think you stay because these people need you. Because you're a good man.” Charles’ expression is intense.

“Don't start that again,” Arthur snaps. “These people would do society as a whole a huge favour if they ceased procreatin’ immediately, and there's nothing good about me other than my aim.”

Charles is still smiling in a smug way. Arthur knows that he believes that small-town sheriff work is part of Arthur's redemption from his previously wicked life. Arthur has lived here for almost nine months now, a fact which he thinks surprises both him and the townspeople equally.

“It's almost six, Sheriff Morgan,” Charles grins. “I think that means it's time to head for a drink.”

Arthur glances over at John. He's lying on his side, wearing one of Arthur's union suits. His long, soft hair frames a pale face.

“Can't,” Arthur says. “Can't leave him.”

Charles looks over. “I have to say, Arthur, I'm surprised you haven't learned that you have to lock the cell after nine months.”

“He ain't a prisoner,” Arthur says. “He got shot.”

“Who is he?”

Arthur is staring at John again, and he frowns. “I don't rightly know. His horse brought him in. He did briefly wake up. Said his name was John.”

“Have you gone through what was on his horse?” Charles asks.

Arthur shakes his head. “Didn't occur to me,” he says honestly. Maybe he's a dreadful sheriff.

Charles hides his smirk. “I'll go look. And get some whisky to bring back?”

Arthur nods. He feels like he could do with a drink. He watches Charles leave then heads over to John's cell, pressing his fingers gently to John's slim, strong neck to check his pulse. It's there, and it’s powerful. This man is going to be absolutely fine.

Arthur forces himself to pull his fingers away and return to his desk. He doesn't want Charles to catch him doing… well, whatever  _ this  _ is. Arthur has long known he finds men pretty in the same way he finds women pretty. It's just not something he can really talk about.

And, damn it, there's something very pretty about the ugly feller lying unconscious in his prison.

Charles reappears, whisky in one hand and a satchel in the other. He looks good, healthy and glowing. Arthur looks at him with jealousy. The pair of them have ridden together for years, and, prior to Arthur's surprise appointment to the role of law enforcer, they hadn't spent a night apart in close to a decade. There was Lenny, too, although he wasn't ever quite as constant.

“Here you go,” Charles says lightly, handing Arthur the satchel before sitting down opposite him and opening the whisky.

Arthur runs his fingers over the worn leather thoughtfully. Is this wrong? John is an unknown. Maybe he wouldn't want Arthur to dig around in his things.

That said, Arthur has stolen from many satchels over the years. He hasn't committed a crime in the time he's been a sheriff, but it's not like he's an innocent.

He smirks at the idea before opening the satchel. There are some bullets, a small carton of cigarettes and a thick journal. Arthur hesitates before lifting the journal and opening it. He keeps his own journal, a series of scrawling observations and shitty drawings, and it's quite private. He feels a pang of guilt for stealing a look at someone else's.

John has sloping, messy handwriting. The first few pages are covered in cryptic notes, references to a map and someone named Abigail. The drawings on the following pages are… less than pleasing. Arthur snorts as he squints to recognise one face as that of John himself, identifiable only by the massive scar on his face. The poor man has written  _ ugly JM  _ next to the picture, and Arthur feels pity for him. A scar like that can really mess with your confidence.

“Arthur!” Charles’ voice breaks through his concentration.

He looks up, feeling blood rush to his cheeks awkwardly. He was lost for a moment. “Sorry, Charles.”

Charles gives him a soft look. “Drink?” he asks, offering the bottle.

Arthur takes it and swallows a long mouthful, relishing the comforting burn of the alcohol. “Thanks,” he says. “So, what are your plans? You can stay the night, although the second cell is presently occupied.”

Charles snorts. “No, thank you. I've set up a little camp just outside the town. I'll head back out there. It's better than listening to you snoring, at any rate.”

Arthur and Charles share a grin. They've spent so long together that it's still strange for Arthur to wake up in the middle of the night to silence, rather than to the noises Charles makes in his sleep.

“How… how long are you planning on staying?” he asks.

“At least until the new year,” Charles replies.

“Oh. Good.” Arthur tries to keep his response cool, but they both know that he's dreading the day Charles decides to set off far away from the town. Arthur will have to decide what his plan is then.

Charles nudges the whisky bottle with his thumb. “Drink up, Sheriff. It's nearly Christmas, after all.”


	3. Wake Up

_ There's blood in his mouth. He tastes it, chokes on the familiar coppery tang, as the boot connects with his face again. _

_ “John!” Abigail shrieks somewhere, close. _

_ He tries to reply, but the boot strikes his ribs now, taking the breath out of his lungs in a painful rush. _

_ “For god's sake, stop it-” Abigail's voice again, cut off with the sound of a sharp slap. _

_ “Abigail…” John manages, the word exhaled in a trickle of his own blood and drool. _

_ He tries to find purchase, scrabbling up. His whole body hurts, but it's far from the first time he's had the shit kicked out of him, and he finds his feet well enough, blinking. _

_ Dutch blinks back, eyes filled with tears. “John-” he says. _

_ Then John sees the gun. “Don't!” he says. _

He opens his eyes, letting out a shocked gasp as his fingers fly up to his shoulder. Instead of the fresh, bloody wound he expects to screw his fingers into, he feels the soft fabric of the union suit he wears, and the thick, reassuring padding of bandages beneath it. Swallowing, he tries to calm himself down, tries to slow his heart rate.

Somehow, he's still alive.

He looks around, and his heart sinks when he sees the bars of the cell he's lying in. Against all odds, he's survived being shot again, but he's probably going to hang.

Great.

In the cell opposite, a hulking figure catches his attention. It's nighttime, and the place is dark, illuminated only by the fragile, silvery light. The man's skin glows golden, and there's a lot of it on show: he's shirtless. His broad chest and shoulders ripple as he writes in the journal on his lap. A bottle of whiskey is clutched in one hand, a cigarette clamped between his teeth.

Strange jail, this one.

He's beautiful, the man in the opposite cell. A thick beard adorns a strong jaw, and he is still wearing a hat, tipped down low over a face which is bewitching even from this distance.

John idly wonders what this feller is in for, and hopes abstractly it's for unnatural behaviour. That would be a nice way to pass some time before his imminent hanging.

“Good evenin’,” he says. The words come out hoarse, as if he hasn't spoken in days. Perhaps he hasn't.

The man looks up, and a slow grin spreads across his face. It's devastating. “You're awake,” he says, rising, discarding his cigarette.

He surprises John by crossing to the door of his cell and opening it easily, stepping out and heading to the door of John's cell, which also opens with a light push. John blinks, confused, but his ability to form a question dies in his throat as he finds himself lying down before this enormous, beautiful man.

This close, he can see the smattering of scars on the man's torso. They shimmer in the delicate light, telling a tale of someone who is very dangerous.

“Drink?” the man offers, tipping the whiskey in his direction.

“Sure,” John manages, sitting up and taking the bottle. He chokes down a few mouthfuls, suddenly aware of his intense thirst, and eyes the stranger over the rim of the bottle.

He has bright, intense eyes, green in this light. They're fixed on John's face. He seems to misinterpret John's stare, because he raises his huge palms and sinks down into a squat beside the cot John is on. “I ain't gonna hurt you,” he says. “My name is Arthur Morgan.”

The whiskey burns John's throat as he says, “Jim Milton.”

Something strange passes across Morgan's face, but he doesn't say anything.

Maybe he knows about John.

“Funny sort of jail,” John says. “No locks.”

“Oh, there's locks, Milton,” Morgan replies.

“No sheriff,” John continues. He's getting a distinctly dangerous feeling from the man before him, and wonders if he did something to the sheriff.

“That's not quite true,” Morgan snorts. That wicked grin is back, revealing strong, straight teeth. It makes John's insides turn to hot liquid. “I'm the sheriff.”

“You are?” John asks.

The man named Arthur Morgan laughs. He smells of whiskey and leather. “It surprises me, too, Milton.”

_ Surprising  _ is an understatement. This man is absolutely sinful, and he's clearly a gunslinger of some description with the wild pattern of scars on his glorious torso.

John swallows. “Did you save me?”

“Your horse saved you,” Morgan snorts. “Rode into town with you bleeding half to death on his back. The idiots in the town thought you  _ were _ dead, come to think of it.”

Morgan has avoided the question, convincing John that he does, in fact, owe his life to the handsome sheriff.

Great. That's a debt he could do without.

“Where exactly are we?” he asks.

“East Wood.” There's contempt in Morgan's tone. He doesn't seem fond of his town.

East Wood is about three days from where John last saw the gang.

“Are you hungry?” Morgan asks, suddenly.

John focuses on his body for a moment. He's cold and aching, but he doesn't have any hunger. At least, not for food. He eyes the sheriff with a soft sigh. A lawful man isn't going to be interested in him.

“Just cold,” John tells him, shivering now that he realises. “This… is yours?” he asks, fingering the material his body is wrapped in. The union suit is too large.

“Sure. I can get you another blanket or… wait there.”

The strange sheriff pads out to the other cell. Does he live there? John's brow furrows as he watches Morgan dig about. He returns with an enormous jacket made of thick, dark wool.

“Here you go,” he tells John, throwing it over him with a casual flick of his wrists. “Warmest thing I own, I reckon.”

It smells of leather and smoke, gun oil and something else, something that makes John swallow.

“Get some sleep,” Morgan tells him. “I'm drunk, and I am hardly goin’ to be a good nurse even when I'm sober.”

John watches him return to his own cell, staring at him as he kicks off his boots and lies down. Beneath the heavy coat, John sighs again.

“Thanks, Sheriff,” he whispers.


	4. Smoking Gun

**December 20, 1898**

Jim Milton.

Jim  _ Fucking  _ Milton.

Arthur just… doesn't really believe him. He watches his guest sleep, his scars glittering in the early morning light, and bites his lower lip thoughtfully. It's almost nine, and Arthur has been out to get breakfast for them. He also paid to take a proper bath. He's telling himself that this is nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to do with the strangely attractive man sleeping in the cell.

Jim had looked up at him last night with what Arthur recognised as mistrust and perhaps a little fear. Those big, dark eyes had captivated Arthur, and he'd found himself desperate to soothe the little liar.

He rolls his eyes at himself and lights a cigarette, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. It's a report sent down from Strawberry, some notes on the movements of the O'Driscolls. There's nothing really for Arthur to worry about; there never is, in this job.

He tries to focus, tries to lose himself in the words, but his eyes keep moving back to the slumbering form of Jim. Or John. Whatever his fucking name is.

He's… dangerous.

Arthur could tell that the moment Jim spoke last night, in a voice that was hoarse and deep and smoky. He had been sizing Arthur up, and he's clearly no stranger to cells.

His body is covered in scars.

Arthur recognises something in Jim, something which he knows is in himself. It's something bad, something dark and desperate. But maybe there's hope for him. Arthur can't be too judgemental, after all.

Jim stretches languidly and opens those dark eyes as Arthur tries to look away, to pretend he's focussed on his actual job. When he sits up, Jim's hair is framing his face in a tangled, fluffy halo.

“Mornin’, Sheriff,” he says, and his voice is still hoarse. Maybe it's always like this. It's certainly not unpleasant.

“Mornin’, Milton,” Arthur replies. “How you feelin’ today?”

Milton rubs his injured shoulder thoughtfully. A small crease appears between his eyebrows. “I guess fine,” he replies slowly.

“You hungry? I got- that is, there's breakfast.”

Milton nods, standing up slowly, shakily. Arthur rises, heading over to the cell in case Jim needs any support, but he's already pottering out, barefoot. He's a little shorter than Arthur, narrower in the waist. Arthur tries hard not to stare as he crosses, barefoot, towards the bread and meat Arthur has laid out on the desk.

“What happened to you?” Arthur asks.

Milton's eyes twinkle as he bites into a piece of bread. “Got shot, Sheriff.”

Something about those sparkling eyes and sardonic grin twists Arthur's insides, but he forces himself to raise an eyebrow. “I meant by who, Milton.”

Something shutters closed behind Milton's eyes, although the smile remains. “It's a long story, Sheriff.”

“What, you got places to be, boy?”

Jim snorts. He swallows another mouthful of bread before stretching again. Arthur's eyes follow the way the union suit, too big for Milton's slight frame, hugs the lines of his body as he does so.

“I ain't got nowhere to be,” Milton replies, finally.

“You can stay here,” Arthur offers, the words out of his mouth before he's really thought about them. He frowns at himself.

Milton's mouth puckers thoughtfully. He's got an interesting face, scarred and twisted. It should be plain. Maybe even ugly. But it's animated and lovely.

“I ain't really the law abidin’, deputy sheriff type,” he says, softly.

“Me neither,” Arthur replies honestly. “But here we are.”

They look at each other for a long moment. Milton blinks, swallowing visibly. Arthur is filled with an intense sort of desire to be closer to him, and he takes a step towards his patient. Jim doesn't step back, and Arthur moves forward again.

Then the door flies open.

“You need to come quick!” Charles shouts, his wide-eyed face appearing. “There's a man with a gun trying to rob the bank!”

Arthur almost laughs in astonishment. “Are you jokin’?”

Charles clearly isn't joking. He glances at Milton and then looks back towards Arthur with the serious, dark expression Arthur has come to realise means trouble.

“I'm coming,” Arthur sighs. He fingers the pistol in his holster, then glances at Milton, who is still staring at him. “Stay here,” he instructs.

Milton nods.

Arthur follows Charles out into the main street. He can hear screaming, and notices the crowd around the bank. Charles is holding a shotgun, his face intense and solemn, and they stalk towards the bank. The air is bitingly cold, and delicate flakes of snow float gently down.

“What is wrong with you people?” Arthur announces to the gathered crowd, many of whom turn to stare at him. “If there's a man with a gun, get the hell out of here!”

A few women listen to him, scuttling back, but a large group remains as Arthur and Charles approach the door of the bank, which is hanging open.

They take cover on either side of the door, Arthur peering around. The bank teller is on the floor on his knees, blood pouring from his bust lower lip. A man with a dirty face is pointing a gun at him.

He's an O'Driscoll.

“Fuck,” Arthur mutters. He rubs his face, annoyed, then pulls out his pistol and raises his voice. “Hey, O'Driscoll! It's the Sheriff! Put down your fucking gun!”

He enters the bank, gun aimed steadily at the bastard's head. The O'Driscoll grins a toothless smile.

“We heard they made you sheriff after what you did,” he sneers. “Well, I hope you've enjoyed your brief career,  _ Morgan.” _

It happens in less than two seconds, but it feels like far longer. The O'Driscoll turns his gun towards Arthur, who begins to step to the side, his finger curling automatically around the trigger of his own gun.

The window to the left of the O'Driscoll smashes, and his eyes widen before a bullet smashes into his temple in a furious cloud of red.

As he crumples to the ground, Arthur takes a step forward, looking out of the window. Standing in Arthur's union suit, his hair still standing on end, clutching a smoking revolver, is Jim Milton.

His dark eyes burn into Arthur's.


	5. Ember

_ Fuck. _

John's cold, and he's shaking a little. The gun is still in his fingers, which were not trembling a moment ago but are now. Sheriff Morgan is staring at him through the broken window with an inscrutable expression, brows lowered over those intense green eyes. John tries to make his face  _ do _ something, something appropriate, but it feels numb.

Morgan stalks back out of the bank after helping the injured teller to his feet and goes to the other man, the one who burst in to tell Morgan about the robbery, the one who is also staring at John.

“Thank you for saving our sheriff, mister!” A woman standing near him shouts the words, and he turns to her. She has big grey eyes and an earnest face.

John knows he should reply, but he can't form any words. More people- women, mostly- are turning to him, echoing the sentiment of the first woman. He glances from them to Morgan, who is talking in a low voice with the other man, and thinks he understands. After all, doesn't he find their grumpy sheriff as appealing as these women do?

As if summoned by his thoughts, Morgan stamps over to John, his face dark. He's wearing a pale blue shirt, the sleeves pushed back to reveal strong, hairy forearms. John's watching them, so he's looking right at Morgan's enormous hand as he reaches out for the gun.

His expression, when John looks up at it, suggests he won't accept any argument on this, and John is, for once, happy to comply. He hands over the revolver, his icy fingers brushing Morgan's hot ones as he does so.

“You're freezin’,” Morgan says, the words a low rumble.

It surprises John that these are the first words Morgan has after John has just shot an O'Driscoll clean in the head through a window at a fair distance, an impossible shot, really. Unlikely, at best. “I…” he begins, but he doesn't know what he's intending to say next, and he trails off.

“You're not wearin’ any shoes,” Morgan observes, and there's a distinct edge to his tone now.

“No, I-”

This time, John is saved from having to reply by Morgan wrapping his strong fingers around John's elbow and steering him back to the sheriff's office. He tries to say something, tries to focus on the words Morgan is now exchanging with townspeople they pass, but all he can think about is the hot, tight grip Morgan has on his arm.

Fuck.

They get back inside and Morgan deposits the revolver on his desk before hauling John over to the fire. He presses his hands down on John's shoulders and John falls awkwardly to his knees in front of the sheriff. He tries hard to keep his gaze focused on Morgan's displeased expression, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

“What were you thinkin’?” Morgan growls. His tone is soft, almost quiet, and John realises that this is the sheriff at his most dangerous. “I told you to stay in here. That man had a gun.”

“And so did I,” John replies, finding his voice. He tries not to notice the way Arthur Morgan's fist balls at his side. “One I clearly know how to use.”

“That brings me onto my second question. Just  _ who the hell _ are you, Milton? That was one hell of a shot.”

John shivers. He looks at the fire, trying to formulate his lie in his throat. He's never been much good at this sort of thing, really; Dutch used to despair of how bad he was at this type of hustle. Outside of poker, John really never learned how to bluff. “I'm a wanderer,” he says.

The words hang, hollowly, in the space between them.

“A wanderer with an impossibly good aim?” Morgan asks, finally.

“It's about all I've ever been good at,” John replies, honestly. His eyes feel suddenly wet and hot, and he stares intently at the fire.

Morgan hesitates. He turns and heads back to his cell, and John thinks for a moment about how, less than twenty minutes ago, the sheriff had invited him to stay here. John knows that he can't stay here- he's never going to be able to stay anywhere again- but he thinks with a pang that he's ruined the invitation.

“I was  _ savin’  _ your ass, if you didn't notice!” he snaps, turning towards the figure of the sheriff, who has his back to John.

It's true. John had managed to wait about fifteen seconds before following Morgan, unable to let him face a man with a gun without support. He had told himself it was because he owes Morgan his life.

But that's not it at all.

He's thinking about the reason why when Arthur turns to him, clutching the wool coat John had slept under last night.

“I don't need my ass savin’, boy,” he replies, but the words are mild. “These people are morons, but they made me the sheriff because I'm fairly good with a gun myself.”

“That O'Driscoll was about to shoot you, Sheriff.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. He's approaching John now, his head cocked to one side thoughtfully. John feels rather like prey caught in the glare of a predator.

He wishes he didn't like it as much.

“How'd you know he was an O'Driscoll?” Morgan asks. The question is light, gentle, at odds with his movements: he sinks down to his knees beside John and, very firmly, wraps the coat around his shoulders. The gesture necessitates Arthur's strong arms caging John, and he doesn't remove them once the jacket is wrapped around him.

John blinks up at him. Those green eyes are very close now. He can see the pulse in Morgan's throat.

“Doesn't pay to be a wanderer and not know who’s dangerous,” he hears himself replying.

The words don't sound true, even to his own ears.

Morgan leans closer. His eyes dart down to John's lips. “I think it's  _ you _ who's dangerous, Milton,” he murmurs.

He has no idea. But right now, the only danger is John closing the small space between their mouths and kissing him. John thinks about it, his body tense with longing.

Then there is a knock at the door.

Morgan leaps to his feet, clearing his throat. There's a dusky blush on his cheeks.

“Come in,” he snaps.

The door opens and one of the women from earlier appears, joined by an older man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

“Arthur, my boy,” he greets, warmly, shaking Morgan's hand. His bright eyes fall on John, who is suddenly aware that he is kneeling awkwardly on the floor, Morgan's coat wrapped around him. “It's your friend I've come to speak with.”

The sheriff gives John a dark look. “Jim Milton, this is the mayor of East Wood, Clyde Forrest. This is his daughter, Miss Felicity Forrest.”

John nods politely at them both.

“I'll keep this brief, Mr Milton,” the mayor says. “There is a clear threat from the O'Driscolls. It would please us greatly if you'd agree to stay with us here and act as Arthur's deputy.”

John sighs. “Look, I can't stay-”

“Just in the short term, Mr Milton. We'd pay you handsomely, of course.”

John considers this. He needs money. He glances at Arthur, who is steadfastly staring at the ceiling. “What do you think, Sheriff Morgan?”

Morgan's lips twitch. “Seems you're the deputy sheriff type after all, Milton.”


	6. Rogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Happy holidays!
> 
> I've been busy with an excess of festive things but I will be replying to comments and things after tomorrow.
> 
> Enjoy!

Deputy Sheriff Jim Milton gives the woman who brings him a fresh pile of clothes a soft, grateful smile which crinkles the corners of his dark eyes and conjures the word  _ roguish  _ with frightening ease. It's the sort of smile which could, perhaps, if it were turned on Arthur, make the sheriff's throat go dry.

But it isn't turned on Arthur, and of course- of  _ course-  _ nothing about Jim Milton makes his body react in any way, because the guy is clearly a liar.

A pretty liar who saved his life, but a liar nonetheless.

The woman leaves with a blush and Jim peels off the union suit without shame, suggesting that he's used to being around other people when he is naked. Arthur tries very, very hard not to look.

“Deputy Sheriff Milton, then?” Charles murmurs by his ear, and Arthur jumps.

He had been so engrossed in staring at his own feet that he didn't hear Charles enter.

As if sensing Arthur's discomfort, Jim looks over at them then, his white shirt hanging open across his strong, scarred chest. His eyes sparkle with humour.

Bastard.

“You heard, then,” Arthur replies. He keeps his voice quiet, not wanting Jim to hear.

“Who  _ is _ he?” Charles asks, his words almost a whisper.

“I intend to find out,” Arthur mutters.

Jim finishes fastening the shirt and strides out of the cell, combing his fingers through his long hair. He looks  _ good. _

Definitely a bastard.

“Jim, this is my good friend, Charles Smith,” Arthur says.

Jim's dark eyes move between Charles and Arthur thoughtfully, then he offers his hand to Charles. “Good to meet ya,” he says.

“Pleasure's all mine,” Charles says, shaking the hand and giving Arthur a bemused glance. “I removed the body. O'Driscolls aren't anywhere near the town. I've ridden out to check.”

“Thanks, Charles,” Arthur replies, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “It seems very strange that one O'Driscoll rode in here by himself to try to rob the bank.”

“Maybe he went rogue,” Jim suggests.

“I don't think so.” Charles is wearing a serious expression. “I think we've been fools, Arthur. I think there's more than one group of O'Driscolls. While we've been monitoring one, another has snuck up on us.”

“You think they want revenge?” Arthur asks.

“Why would they want revenge?” Jim wonders. He's looking hard at Arthur.

Arthur tries hard to maintain a calm expression, but the threat is clear in his next words. “We can discuss it later. You and I have got plenty to learn about each other.”

Charles sighs, running his fingers through his long hair and looking distressed. “That's not all, Arthur. I haven't been able to find Lenny. Someone told me he was in town, but I haven't seen him.”

Arthur feels the icy grip of fear around his stomach. He tries to force a laugh. “You know Lenny. He'll have had too much to drink and gone to bed with someone he shouldn't have.”

Charles gives him a shaky smile that doesn't meet his eyes. “Perhaps. I'm going to ride out, see if the O'Driscolls are a little further away than I first checked. Hopefully I'll find Lenny.”

“I suppose my job is just to stay here and protect this grim little town,” Arthur sighs.

“You can show me the ropes, Sheriff,” Jim says in his hoarse tones, his eyes suddenly burning into Arthur's.

Arthur feels a blush creep up his neck. “I'm sure that'll be delightful for us both,” he says, trying to make the words sardonic, but failing.

Charles rolls his eyes. “Glad the town's in such capable hands, Sheriff and Deputy Sheriff. I'll be back in a couple of days.”

He turns to leave and Arthur grabs his shoulder firmly, turning him back so they're facing each other.

“Charles,” he says. He pauses. “Thank you for this.”

Charles merely smiles before leaving. Arthur is left alone with Jim Milton.

As the door slams shut behind Charles, Arthur turns to face his new deputy to find Jim taking a step back.

Good.

“Where you tryin’ to go?” he asks. “You still owe me a better explanation, Milton.”

Jim raises his palms. “Now, look-”

The door clatters open and Arthur closes his eyes in frustration.

“Arthur, my boy!”

It's the fucking mayor.

“Mayor,” Arthur manages through clenched teeth.

“I have brought young Milton a badge!” The mayor's voice is bright. Arthur opens his eyes to see the smiling moron handing Milton a small golden star, much like the one Arthur mostly leaves abandoned in his desk drawer.

“Young Milton,” Arthur says, watching as Jim accepts the badge and begins to fumble with it. “Exactly how young do you think Milton is, Mayor?”

“We can't all be old and wise, Morgan,” Jim replies, the words sweet. He is still looking down at the badge, apparently unable to fasten it.

Arthur feels a retort rising in his throat, but he's captivated by the sight of Milton's long, slender fingers failing to attach the badge. “Here, let me,” he snaps.

He steps forward, towering over Milton, who stills immediately and allows Arthur to take the badge from him. Their fingers brush each other, and Arthur tries hard to suppress a shudder. Arthur's face is very close to Jim's as he fastens the badge, and he breathes in the masculine scent of him.

“Don't think I'm finished with you,” Arthur whispers, quietly enough to ensure that only Jim hears.

Jim tries to take a step back, but Arthur's fingers curl firmly around his collar.

“See, you're getting on terrifically already,” the mayor beams behind them. “I'll let you get on. I pity those monsters when they come back, I really do. I wouldn't want to face the pair of you. Farewell!”

Arthur doesn't move. He's staring down at Jim, whose eyes are fixed on his own, one of his hands wrapped around Arthur's, which is still gripping him tightly.

They're both breathing very heavily.

The door closes with an audible bang. They're alone again.


	7. Trust

“Look,” John says, and words start pouring out of his mouth without much thought behind them, because Arthur- Sheriff Morgan- is looming over him, so close that John can  _ smell _ him, all leather and gunpowder, so close that John could reach out and lick the pulse in his throat. His green eyes are intense and dark, his expression hungry. “Look. I know you don't have any reason to trust me. I know that. But I won't do anything to hurt you- or your town. I promise.”

And it's strange how much John  _ means  _ these words. He can't imagine ever wanting to do anything to hurt the scary, beautiful man who has hold of him.

Sheriff Morgan regards him doubtfully. “Is your name even Jim Milton?”

John swallows. Morgan's hands are still on him, one of them warm and hard beneath John's own hand. “I… does it matter? You can't seriously expect me to believe that you've never changed your name. Never wanted a different life.” He sees Morgan's face change, his eyes widening suddenly, and realises  _ this  _ is the right thing to say. “You weren't born a sheriff, and I've seen your scars. We're not so different, you and me. Two guys wantin’ something new.”

“Alright then, Deputy,” Morgan replies, and there's a small smile turning up the corners of his lips. “Alright. I'll drop it- for now.”

John feels a press of relief as Arthur steps back, his hands dropping from John's collar. But there's a pang of disappointment, too; Morgan is by far the loveliest man John's ever seen.

And he wants him.

“Who shot you?” Morgan asks suddenly, turning back to his desk and heading towards it. He sinks down in his chair, fixing John with that green stare.

“Thought you were droppin’ it,” John replies, folding his arms.

“This isn't me wonderin’ how my deputy sheriff is one of the best shots I've ever seen,” Morgan says, and John feels himself blush at that compliment, “this is me askin’ some friendly questions.”

John sits down opposite Arthur. “We're friends now?”

“We both tried to save the other one's life,” Morgan shrugs. “I also figure I'm now officially your boss.”

“Alright, Sir,” John snorts, trying to be funny, but the words make him feel a little weak, and his blush darkens.

Morgan doesn't comment on this, but that small smile is back. It's amazing how he manages to look deadly and terrifying one moment and downright mischievous the next.

“What's involved in bein’ the deputy sheriff?” John asks, changing the subject, suddenly finding it hard to look Morgan in the eye.

Morgan chuckles. It's dark and smoky, a very pleasing sound. “Fuck all, really, apart from these damn O'Driscolls. Nothing happens in this town.”

John wants to ask how Arthur Morgan ended up here, but it seems unfair to ask since John has managed to slither out of answering Arthur's questions. It doesn't seem to suit him, this place, and yet it suits him immensely.

“I mostly just drink a lot and sleep a lot,” Morgan continues. “So feel free to do that. And if those O'Driscoll bastards show up, just do what you did back at the bank and we'll be fine.”

They lapse into silence. John thinks about Dutch for a second, about how hard Dutch would laugh if he could see John now. He thinks about the way Dutch's eyes had shone with tears right before John was shot, the way his voice broke around John's name.

And then he's thinking about Abigail and Jack, his family, and how he hopes they're fine. He's sure they will be- Abigail is far smarter than he's ever been, far more capable at everything, really, other than shooting a gun. She used to joke that shooting was John's only talent.

It's true though, isn't it?

John sighs.

“You alright?” Morgan asks, gently kicking his foot against John's.

“Sure. Just my shoulder is hurtin’.”

It's not hurting, not really, and John knows he's lucky that Old Boy brought him down into this town to be found by the sheriff. Arthur Morgan has clearly lived a similar life to John in many ways, but his whole being gives off an air of capability and reliability that John envies.

Envies and finds attractive.

Maybe staying here is a bad idea. It's been a while since John has been interested in anyone. Being with Abigail had given him cover, protection, but here he has none. He's always known that his desires are considered unorthodox and unnatural.

He can't imagine  _ leaving  _ Arthur Morgan, though. Not voluntarily.

Fuck.

“I can get the doctor,” Arthur offers, already rising to his feet.

“No. No, I'll be fine.” John forces a smile. “Perhaps you can take me on a tour of the town.”

That might be better. Away from the oppressive, secluded office, John might feel the urge to kiss Morgan a little less.

“Sure,” Morgan replies. “Don't get too excited though, pal. The most exciting thing we'll see are two young ladies bashing each other over the head with their parasols over the same suitor.”

John laughs, standing up and following Arthur to the doorway. “That sounds plenty excitin’ to me, boss.”

It's as they're at the doorway, Morgan's huge hand reaching out to close around the handle, that John hears  _ his  _ voice, deep and loud, just on the other side of the door.

“I need to speak to the sheriff, son,” Dutch van der Linde is saying.

Shit. John feels as though the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. He turns to Arthur, trying to drag an excuse up, but ends up just reaching out and wrapping his hand around Arthur's wrist.

“Milton-” Arthur begins, clearly surprised.

“Trust me,” John says. “Please.”

They have maybe six seconds.

“Fine,” Morgan replies, in a tone which suggests he absolutely  _ doesn't  _ trust John.

He allows himself to be tugged backwards, away from the door and towards the small storage cupboard which is standing open. John barely thinks about what he's doing, he just knows that he  _ cannot  _ be seen by Dutch, and he can't allow Arthur to talk to him, either.

That's how he ends up pushing Arthur into the cupboard, squeezing in next to him and closing the door behind them.


	8. The Agreement

It's absolutely pitch black in the cupboard. Arthur is pressed uncomfortably against the shelves, the solid and warm shape of Jim Milton firmly wedged against him. Arthur wonders what it is about the man about to enter their office that has his deputy so terrified, but he can hardly ask. When he does open his mouth, Jim shushes him urgently.

It could be worse. Arthur's body is starting to betray him; his strangely beautiful deputy sheriff is pleasant to look at, but equally pleasant to be pushed up against. He's solid everywhere, bony in places- the jutting angles of his hips are pressed firmly into Arthur. Jim's slightly shorter stature means that his hot breath is ghosting against Arthur's throat.

Before Arthur has a chance to really enjoy the moment, they hear the sound of the office door opening.

“Sheriff Morgan?” asks a familiar voice. Doctor Turner. “It seems our sheriff isn't here, sir.”

“Any ideas where I might find him?” The other voice is smooth, deep and honeyed. Arthur would describe it as an attractive voice, if not for the way Milton tenses against him at the sound of it.

“Our town is only so big, sir. I'm sure Sheriff Morgan is nearby, doing his bit to help the townsfolk.”

Arthur stifles a snort at that. He feels Jim turn towards him, and can almost sense the glare he's being given.

“There's a rumour in Dart's Port that your sheriff is a gunslinger. You know anything about that, doctor?”

Arthur freezes.

“Nothing,” Doctor Turner replies coldly. “A gunslinger? How outrageous.”

“So your sheriff ain't Arthur Morgan, the feller with a two hundred dollar bounty in the next state?”

Arthur tries hard not to groan. He hasn't ever discussed this with the people of East Wood; he assumes they  _ know,  _ but it's never been mentioned. He feels Jim's fingers brush against his own, and he doesn't know if his deputy is being curious, furious or soothing about the revelation.

“Must be a different Arthur Morgan,” Doctor Turner says with remarkable indifference.

Arthur realises that he's wrapped his fingers firmly around Jim's. They're warm and calloused. Jim, notably, does not tug them back.

“Sure,” the stranger says, warm and jovial.

“Our sheriff- and our new deputy sheriff, too- they're heroes,” Turner says, pride dripping from the words.

Arthur feels his breath catch in his throat. It's not true- of course it isn't- but it's gratifying.

“New deputy?” the stranger asks.

It's Jim's turn to freeze. Arthur hears the sharp intake of breath and squeezes Jim's hand reassuringly. Whatever Jim fears, Arthur has decided he's not going to let it happen.

Remarkable, really, how he's come to that conclusion while trapped in a cupboard with a man whose real name he doesn't know.

“He got shot,” Turner announces. “Horse brought him in to town.”

Jim surprises Arthur by pressing his face into Arthur's chest. It's a trusting gesture. There's something very sweet and vulnerable about it.

Goddammit, Arthur cannot be thinking like this about his deputy sheriff.

“Young man, younger than the sheriff,” Turner continues.

Arthur rolls his eyes in the dark. Jim Milton isn't  _ that _ much younger than he is.

“Scarred face. Clearly seen some bad things. But he saved the sheriff. He's a hero.”

Jim is tense against Arthur, one hand still gripping Arthur's, the other coming up to wrap firmly around Arthur's collar. Arthur pats him gently on the shoulder.

“He sounds fascinating,” the stranger says. “It would be lovely to meet him. Say, why don't we go and look for them?”

“Sure thing.”

There's footsteps, then the sound of the door slamming shut. Then there's the sound of Jim's ragged breathing, the hot feel of his body against Arthur's, the way his soft hair tickles the bare skin at Arthur's throat.

“You alright?” Arthur whispers.

He needs to get out of this cupboard, really, needs to get away from Jim. But it's  _ nice _ to have him so close. And he clearly needs comfort.

“Sure,” Milton replies, the words a soft mumble. Arthur feels the rumble of his low voice against his chest.

“There ain't a two hundred dollar bounty on me,” Arthur blurts out into the darkness.

He feels Jim move away slightly, staring up quizzically at his face.

“It's a three hundred dollar one,” Arthur deadpans.

To his relief, Milton laughs aloud. “Let's get out of this cupboard, boss.”

He pushes the door open and steps out. Arthur blinks, blinded for a moment by the bright light of the office. Milton is moving away from him, back towards the desk. There's a definite blush on the side of his throat.

Arthur has questions. Who was that man? Why did Jim want to hide from him? Why did he want to stop Arthur talking to him?

But they die in his throat when Jim sits down and cradles his face in his hands. He looks wretched.

“I have to leave town,” he announces.

That's a horrible idea for many reasons. Mostly because of the wound on his shoulder, but also because Arthur needs Jim Milton. He's a fantastic shot and if the O'Driscolls come, he'll be invaluable.

Arthur also has an ulterior motive for wanting Jim to stay, something to do with the way his heart races when he looks at him.

Shit.

“You can't,” Arthur says.

Jim looks up, dark eyes flashing in challenge, and Arthur raises a placating hand.

“I ain't going to force you to stay,” he says. “I'm askin’ you to. At least for now.”

“Why do you care what happens to me?” Milton asks bitterly.

Arthur takes a step towards him, then another, and when Milton doesn't flinch or back off, he rests his hand on his deputy's thin shoulder. “I lifted your sorry carcass off the back of that horse and nursed you back to health. I ain't gonna let you ride off half-cocked and get killed after all that effort.”

Milton laughs without humour.

“If I did care,” Arthur adds, softly, carefully, “would it be so bad?”

Jim's eyes are round, dark and intense. He is flushed, and Arthur watches him swallow. “I guess not,” he says, finally.

Arthur tries very, very hard not to read too much into this. Instead, he forces a smile. “So you'll stay?”

“If he comes back-” Jim begins.

Raising his other hand, Arthur says, “Whatever it is you're worried about, I'll help you. I promise.”

Jim considers this. Then he offers his hand. “Likewise, Sheriff Morgan,” he says.

They shake hands, and Arthur tries not to think about how pretty Jim's smile is.


	9. The Painter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, lovelies.

**December 21st, 1898**

It’s just after midnight. John is sitting, alone, in the sheriff’s office. A bottle of whiskey is clenched in his fist, and he sits with his feet on the desk, his revolver resting against his boot. He feels on edge. It’s fucking _Dutch_ who has him feeling this way.

Why couldn’t Dutch just leave him for dead? John Marston could have died, and Jim Milton could have been born.

Arthur had spent the afternoon and evening clearly unsettled, pacing the office. The O’Driscoll in the bank clearly was unexpected. An hour ago, he announced he was going to walk the town, look for his missing friend Lenny.

And John’s been here ever since, waiting for him to return. Left alone with his thoughts, he’s feeling very miserable. It’s been one hell of a day. Somehow, he’s managed to get a job under a false identity as the deputy sheriff to the most captivating man he’s ever met. Dutch is sniffing around, and it’s only a matter of time until he finds him. The O’Driscoll bastards are on the scene, apparently desiring revenge for something Arthur did to them.

John knows this won’t end well.

He should just leave. It’s patently obvious, glaringly clear- staying around Arthur Morgan is going to end badly. Not just because of the powder keg of drama simmering dangerously in the town, but because of how John feels when he looks at him. John has always loved men in the way that most men love women. He remembers hearing stories when he was a kid about what happens to men who love men. Dutch spent years instilling the message in John when it became clear that John didn’t find the girls in the camp pretty. Eventually, John married Abigail, and that was that- they protected each other, and John became a father to Jack.

There have been men along the way, of course. Quiet nights spent in little towns close to the camp, stolen kisses with men he really shouldn’t have been touching.

His whole life is a disaster.

There is a knock at the door. It can’t be Arthur returning- he would simply enter. Surely, someone visiting the sheriff’s office after midnight can only mean one thing. John sighs, placing down the bottle and reaching for his revolver. He stands up, and the knock is repeated, more urgently.

He crosses the room, tensing himself, ready for whatever is on the other side of the door.

Flinging the door open, he aims the gun out, directly between the round, startled grey eyes of a small gentleman with an elaborate moustache and delicately styled beard.

“Ah,” the man says. “You are not Arthur Morgan.” He has a heavy French accent.

“No, I ain’t,” John says, not lowering the gun, even though this man clearly presents no threat.

He is clutching a brown leather bag in both hands. He is wearing a tight, heavy jacket which would no doubt reveal the presence of a weapon on his body. “Who _are_ you, then?” he asks, remarkably bold for someone with a gun between his eyes.

“Deputy Sheriff Jim Milton.” The words feel thick in his mouth.

The man’s eyes light up. “ _Oui_ , ze deputy sheriff. So Arthur is the sheriff, _non?_ I had ‘eard it was so.”

“You know Arthur?” John asks.

The man smiles slyly. “I know the sheriff _intimately, mon ami.”_

His words make something within John clench furiously, and he has to try very hard not to squeeze the trigger. Is this man implying… that he and Arthur…? Surely not. Surely nobody would merely admit to that.

“I am ze famous painter, Charles Châtenay,” the man continues, boldly, that sly smirk still on his face. “Arthur and I met… oh, many years ago. In Saint Denis.”

John’s jealous. He knows that he is. It ripples unpleasantly through him. He lowers the gun, stepping back and trying to force a neutral expression. “He’s patrollin’ the town. You’re welcome to come and wait for him.”

Charles brushes past him, entering the office in a cloud of cologne and the underlying scent of paint. In the flickering light of the room, John is able to get a better look at this man who is claiming to know Arthur Morgan so _intimately._ He’s small, in every way, short and slim and narrow. He’s old- even older than Morgan himself- and there’s grey hair at his temples and in his elaborate facial hair. He isn’t handsome. But there’s something handsome about the way he moves, the confidence he possesses, the sound of his voice.

“I must say, I ain’t never heard of you, Charles Châtenay, the painter.” John knows it’s bitter jealousy which makes him say the words.

Châtenay glances at him. John doesn’t like the look; the painter’s lips curve in a smile which suggests that he can see right through him, right through his lies and his bravado. “Well, now you ‘ave,” he says, shrugging carelessly.

“What do you paint?”

Châtenay drops his bag dramatically onto Arthur’s desk, opening it with a flourish and producing a sketch from the inside, which he hands to John. John takes it and immediately blushes. It depicts two absolutely naked people, a man and a woman, sprawled on a bed.

“I… I…”

Châtenay laughs. “I drew your sheriff like that, once.”

John almost drops the sketch. He looks up at Châtenay and the fury in his eyes must be visible, because the painter raises his hands.

“Is that jealousy in those pretty eyes, _mon ami?”_ Châtenay asks.

This ridiculous painter has seen right through John. Absolutely. Thirty seconds in his presence, and Châtenay has correctly deduced that John is both attracted to men generally and to Arthur Morgan specifically.

Before he can summon an answer, the door opens again, and Morgan steps in, bringing the sharp scent of coldness. John glances towards him, helplessly, still clutching the incredibly saucy sketch.

“Charles!” Arthur exclaims, and he sounds pleased to see the enigmatic little artist. Of course he does.

“ _Bonjour,_ Arthur,” Châtenay purrs. “You are looking very ‘andsome. Sheriff life clearly suits you.”

Arthur grins at him, and it’s incredibly soft and fond. John decides that he hates Charles Châtenay.

“Dare I ask what brings you into my office in the middle of this nowhere little town in the middle of the night?” Arthur asks.

“I ‘eard you were here. I am… staying a few days. I ‘ave a room in the next street. I thought perhaps… but no, you are occupied.” Châtenay’s keen eyes move between John and Arthur.

Arthur’s cheeks are pink, and John can absolutely understand why. As far as he knows, Châtenay is all but revealing the nature of their clearly romantic past to a stranger. He is very carefully _not_ looking at John.

“Get out of here, Charles,” he says, gently. “I’ll speak to you in the mornin’, and you can tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Charles Châtenay smiles. He closes his bag and nods at John. “You may keep that painting, Deputy Sheriff. Arthur, I was just telling your Jim Milton here about the time I drew you like that, do you recall?”

Arthur is positively scarlet now. John wills him to deny it, but he doesn’t, merely scowls at the painter.

“Until tomorrow, _mon ami,”_ Châtenay smiles, approaching Arthur and kissing his cheek. “It was nice to meet you, Deputy Sheriff,” he adds, before leaving.

As the door closes, Arthur raises a hands to rub his face in a frustrated fashion. He turns to John, who is trying to keep his face calm. He glances down at the drawing in his hands and immediately fails, his mouth twisting into a jealous scowl.

“So,” Arthur says. He clears his throat. “Look. I’m goin’ to… I’m goin’ to go check that everythin’ is okay.”

And so, even though he just returned, he leaves the office. John groans.


	10. What Happens On The Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter for you all today.  
> It's fluffy and nice!

John waits three minutes before going after him.

Arthur Morgan is worried that Jim Milton hates him now because he’s attracted to men. Or because Charles  Châtenay has heavily implied that he is.

And John, despite the jealousy he feels at the thought of the painter’s nimble fingers on the sheriff, cannot allow him to feel worried about that. John knows exactly what it is like to feel rejected because of who you find attractive.

He decides as he stalks up the main street of East Wood that, if Arthur has gone to the painter, he will kill the Frenchman without hesitation. The air is cold, and John didn’t pull his jacket on before stepping outside. The ground is damp with watery snow. It is easy to follow the broad prints Arthur has left behind. Thankfully, they don’t seem to be going towards the next street, where the flirtatious little artist is, but out towards the edge of town. John frowns, abstractly noticing as he follows the tracks that his entire foot fits comfortably in the outline left by Arthur’s.

At the edge of the small town, the road at this end gives way to a grassy track, leading up a small hill. The trees are bare, and twigs brush at John as he follows the tracks up it.

Arthur is sat at the top of the hill on the trunk of a fallen tree. He has his back to John, his hat placed on the trunk by his side. The sky is navy, dotted with glowing stars as clouds float lazily by. The silver glow of the moon makes Arthur’s dark blond hair appear almost golden.

John takes a step towards him, wondering what he’s even going to say, when Arthur suddenly turns and points his gun straight at him.

“Fuck, Jim, it’s you,” he says, lowering it immediately. “Were you tryin’ to sneak up on me? You’re so loud I practically heard your every step from the moment you set off.”

John laughs. “No. I just came to talk.”

“Maybe you should have put a coat on, you goddamn fool.” Arthur is eyeing John’s chest with a scowl.

John realises that he’s so cold that his nipples are visibly hard through the fine fabric of the shirt.

“Come sit by me.” Arthur instructs, then his face twists. “If you can stand to, that is.”

He’s worried about John’s reaction to his possible attraction to men. John can’t stand to see him looking so gloomy, and he heads over without hesitation, sitting down on the freezing wood beside Arthur, so close that their thighs are touching.

“You don’t need to worry,” John says, after a moment. He’s usually so inarticulate, but he’s trying very hard here not to say the wrong thing. “I don’t… if you…”

John is looking out over the valley below, but he feels Arthur’s gaze on the side of his face.

“It doesn’t bother you?” Arthur asks, quietly.

John shakes his head. “No.”

“You looked so… disappointed.” Arthur looks away, reaching up to rub at his own face in a tired way.

“That wasn’t… that was because of Châtenay.” John feels the hot blood rush to his own cheeks.

“Charles? What about him?”

John exhales. How can he tell Arthur Morgan that he’s jealous of the painter? He bites his lip. “What happened between you two?”

Arthur laughs, startled. “Between me and Charles? He kissed me once. It was after he painted me.”

Just one kiss. John can imagine it clearly, pictures it vividly when he closes his eyes. But it’s only a kiss. “So you’re not…? But you must be; why else would you run out here?”

Arthur is staring at him again. “I find men attractive in the way I find women attractive,” he says, and the words sound clumsy.

John has the distinct feeling that Arthur has never said those words aloud before. He knows he has been given a gift, and he forces himself to turn to look at Arthur, into those intense eyes, which are currently defiant, waiting for John to reject him.

“And Châtenay knows that? And he… he wants you?” Why are these the words coming out of his mouth? He wishes he could say something more appropriate.

Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it again, before replying, “He definitely knows. As for him  _ wantin’  _ me or whatever, I have no idea. He’s always been a flirt.” He must read the relief in John’s face, because the corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. “Wait. You were  _ jealous.  _ That’s why you looked so damn furious.”

John should deny it. He tries to get the words out.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be jealous of, boy,” Arthur snorts, turning back to the valley in front of them, still smiling. “Do I really strike you as the sort of man who falls for smooth-talkin’ painters, Jim Milton?”

Of course he doesn’t.

“I much prefer my men to be scarred, secretive and complete fools.”

The words hang between them for a moment. John’s heart is racing in his chest, and he holds the words close, deciding that he needs to remember them forever. When John doesn’t reject him or scuttle off, Arthur reaches across and wraps his fingers, hot and strong, around John’s own icy hand.

It’s nice. It’s more than nice. John blinks, looking down at their entwined fingers.

“John,” he says.

“Hmm?”

John swallows. “My real name. It’s John.”

Arthur squeezes his fingers. “I know it is.”

John feels his stomach turn icy. What exactly does Arthur know about him? Does he know his real identity, know that he’s a wanted man in several states? Does he know about Dutch?

“You told me when you woke up for the first time. I don’t think you even remember.” Arthur is smiling, gently. “So when you told me your name was  _ Jim _ I knew you weren’t tellin’ the truth.”

“But you let me stay anyway.”

“Apparently so,” Arthur says.

They sit with their fingers entwined, silent, happy.


	11. An Uncomfortable Request

The morning is bright and golden when John rouses himself from sleep, and he supposed that after the excitement and drama of yesterday, plus his healing wound, he has probably earned a late start to the day. He sits up slowly, blinking, and finds that the office is empty apart from him. Arthur must be off somewhere.

Arthur. John thinks back to last night fondly, remembering the soft smile on Arthur's face as he all but confessed his attraction to John. They had walked back to the office together, not touching, not speaking, but exchanging the bright glances of a couple with a secret. Back inside, John had wondered for a wild moment if Arthur was going to kiss him. The sheriff had looked down at him with a burning intensity naked on his face, but he'd turned away with a tender squeeze of John's fingers instead.

God, John wants him.

He scratches his tangled hair absently, wondering if Arthur has gone to collect breakfast. He should probably get up and get dressed in something which isn't Arthur's union suit.

There is a basin of cold water in the narrow space between the two cells, and John moves towards it unsteadily. Pushing the suit down over his shoulders, revealing the ugly wound, he tips his head forward and plunges it into the freezing water with a gasp.

It's as he is drawing his head back out of the water, his long hair dripping wildly into his eyes, that he hears the door open behind him.

“Tell me you've brought breakfast,” John smiles, reaching for the bar of soap.

“I have not,” replies Dutch, smoothly.

John's stomach turns to ice. He is painfully aware of his revolver, which is tucked beneath his pillow, out of his reach. Slowly, he turns to face Dutch, rivulets of water trailing down his bare chest.

“Hello, John.” Dutch is wrapped up in his classic black layers, his eyes peering brightly at John. His hands are empty, and he is standing by the door, not currently posing a physical threat.

“What d'you want, Dutch?”

Dutch's dark eyes widen. He looks distraught, hurt, like John has wounded him. “Son, you're my family. I want to know you're safe.”

John's eyebrows fly up. “You want to know I'm safe,” he repeats, incredulously.

Dutch has the common sense not to push this issue. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and frowning. “Things between us don’t have to be difficult, son.”

John wonders if he could manage to close the distance between them and strangle Dutch before his former friend managed to grab a gun and shoot him. Probably not. He forces himself to stay calm, breathing steadily through his nose, trying to unclench his fists. “I just want you to leave me alone,” he says. “That’s all. I won’t bother you. I won’t do anything against you. But I want you to leave me.”

“I will do that. But I need you to do something for me first.”

John narrows his eyes. “What could you possibly want me to do? I don’t have anything to offer you. As you’re well aware, I am a deputy sheriff now.”

Dutch finally steps forward, his arms loose and gentle as he opens them slightly. “Do you know why the O’Driscolls keep coming back to this backwards little town?” he asks.

John shakes his head. He thinks abstractly of Arthur, of how the sheriff clearly went toe-to-toe with the O’Driscolls. He provoked them. He did something bad enough to them that the townsfolk made him stay here to protect them.

“There’s  _ gold _ here,” Dutch says. “Somewhere in this town, there’s a stash of gold worth a million.”

John narrows his eyes. “I haven’t heard anyone mention any gold, Dutch. This sounds like another one of your plans.”

They stare at each other for a moment; Dutch’s eyes are intense and his face is solemn. John remembers the burning, searing pain of the bullet in his shoulder, reaching up absentmindedly to rub at it. How did things go so wrong between them? There was a time when John would have trusted this man with his life. He would have killed for him- he did, in fact, do so many times.

“Trust me,” Dutch says. “It is here. And I want it.”

“I don’t see how that’s anything to do with me. I’m hardly going to help you.”

Dutch sighs. “John, what about your family?”

John thinks of Abigail and Jack for a painful, white hot moment. They are still with Dutch. He knows they’ll be fine- Abigail is smarter than he is, a better shot, far more terrifying- but still. Is Dutch  _ threatening _ them?

Dutch must read the fire in John’s eyes, because he raises his hands in a soothing fashion. “Son, just think of the money. Abigail and Jack will be well-provided for if you help me. They’ll be set up for life. If you never plan on coming home… well, nobody is going to make you. But you can make sure they’re safe. Protected.”

John still has the distinct impression that Dutch is threatening his family. But what can he do about it? He’s one injured man. God knows what he’d be up against if he tried to challenge the gang.

“I want to see them,” he says, without thinking about it.

“Impossible,” Dutch says smoothly. “Think about how disruptive that would be to little Jack. He thinks you’re dead, John. If you don’t plan on coming home, that’s for the best, surely?”

No. John feels sick. He reaches up to push his hair back irritably. “Dutch, you son of a bitch-” He takes a step forward, his body achingly tense.

“John.” Dutch reaches for the gun at his hip, resting his hand on it. “If you  _ do _ want your family, you’ll help me help them. Either they can stay with me and I’ll provide for them using the gold, or I’ll release them into your care.”

So Dutch is using his family as leverage. John tries hard to think of a way out of this, but none spring to mind. His hands clench and unclench helplessly at his sides.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, finally.


	12. Breakfast

Arthur wakes up with a smile on his face for the first time in a very, very long time.

He rolls out of bed and looks over at the opposite cell with something very powerful swelling in his chest; John is asleep still, sprawled inelegantly across his bed, his long hair draped like a fine curtain of dark silk across his pillow. His mouth is hanging open and he’s snoring softly.

Lovely.

Something happened between them last night, something monumental and  _ special.  _ Arthur remembers the cold feeling of John’s fingers, the expression in his dark eyes as they’d admitted… something to each other. He doesn’t know exactly where they stand now, but there’s an agreement there, an agreement that this is going to be something important.

Arthur’s smile doesn’t waver as he quickly washes and dresses. John doesn’t stir, even when Arthur starts singing, so he decides to go and get some breakfast for his lazy deputy. He pulls on his overcoat and hat before heading out.

It’s a cold, fresh morning. The town is slowly waking up. The mayor’s daughter, Felicity Forrest, is approaching as he steps down to the road. She has a fur-lined bonnet over her pale blonde hair, and her bright blue eyes twinkle as she makes her way over.

“Sheriff,” she says warmly. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you, Miss Forrest.” Arthur hooks his thumbs into his belt loops as he regards her. “Is everythin’ okay?”

Her smile is warm. “Everything is fine, Sheriff. Although your insistence on jumping to the conclusion that the town only reaches out to you when we require something of you is precisely why I am here.”

He blinks at her. “Miss?”

“Doctor Turner and my father have been trying to get you to take a house for a months, Sheriff. They invite you to events you decline to attend. It would be pleasant if you would start to mix with us more.”

Arthur exhales slowly. He has merely kept his distance from these people because he assumed that they didn’t  _ really _ want their scruffy, lawless sheriff to attend. Perhaps he was wrong. “I ain’t really one for social events, Miss.”

Felicity Forrest offers him a surprisingly roguish smile. “I expect you will cope like a man at the Christmas soiree my father is holding tomorrow night, regardless, Sheriff Morgan.”

“I-”

“Bring Deputy Milton, too,” she offers. “A few of the girls are intrigued by him.”

Arthur can well imagine that they are. He remembers his own initial feelings about John’s face, the scarred and narrow appearance he has, and realises now that he was blind from the start. John is intensely beautiful. “I will ask him, Miss, although I can’t promise anythin’.”

She claps her hands in a satisfied fashion. “Wonderful. I will have some appropriate outfits sent over. Good day.”

He watches her sweep away in a cascade of pale blue skirts. A soiree. Wonderful.

By the time he reaches the baker, he is smiling once more at the thought of John’s face when he finds out. He can’t imagine John will like the idea any more than he does.

Charles Châtenay is sitting on the steps of the bakers, a steaming mug clutched between his fingers. He smiles sleepily up at Arthur. “Good morning, Arthur,” he says.

“Charles. I’m surprised to see you awake so early.”

His friend offers him a broad shrug. “I wanted to paint in  _ ze _ early morning light. I got some sketches done.” He rummages in his bag for a moment before shoving some papers into Arthur’s hands.

It’s John. Charles has sketched him sat atop a horse, thankfully clothed, looking intently into the middle distance. He looks incredibly handsome. Perhaps Charles is another one of John’s admiring acquaintances. “You painted J-Jim?”

“I saw how you two were looking at each other,” Charles says sniffily. “Do not give me  _ zat _ judgemental tone, Arthur.”

Arthur blushes. It’s pointless trying to deny it.

“Where is your charming deputy, anyway?” Charles asks, taking a sip from his mug.

“He’s asleep. I came to get him some breakfast.”

Charles sighs wistfully. “I always knew you would be a perfect lover,  _ mon ami.  _ Breakfast the morning after…  _ magnifique.” _

“I did not… we haven’t… oh, shut up.”

Arthur pushes past Charles, his cheeks flaming, and heads inside to purchase some food. Charles watches through the doorway, his eyes twinkling, and Arthur wonders if there will soon be a painting of a blushing sheriff buying baked goods for his secret lover.

“I ‘eard you are attending the Christmas soiree tomorrow night,” Charles tells him, as he steps back outside.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Dare I ask how you’ve managed to get so involved in the news of the town so quickly?”

Charles doesn’t reply, merely offers him a sly wink. “I ‘ave managed to get myself an invitation, so I shall see you there.”

Arthur sighs and raises his hands in defeat before heading back towards the sheriff’s office. He is in a good mood. When people smile at him as he passes, he offers them one in return.

His elation vanishes the moment he steps back into the office and closes the door. John is sat in front of the fire, his shoulders and chest bare, his hair dripping water down onto a morose and grim face.

“John? What happened?”

John looks up at him, his eyes bright with tears. When he sees Arthur, he forces a wobbly smile. “Nothin’. Nothin’ has happened, Arthur.”

He’s lying again.

“John.” Arthur takes a step towards him. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

John hesitates. For a moment, his lips move soundlessly, as though he’s thinking about saying something. Then his face darkens and he scowls. “I ain’t  _ lyin’,  _ Arthur. Be nice if you’d just trust me for five fuckin’ minutes.”

Arthur freezes. He is absolutely torn between going to John and scooping him up in his arms, holding him until he breaks and tells Arthur what the hell is going on, and drawing his gun on the little liar.

Finally, he exhales through his nose and throws the bundle of breakfast down at John’s feet.

“Eat up,” he says. “You need to keep your strength up.” The words come out hollow and cold.


	13. Drawn Together

John feels like a bastard. More than that, he  _ knows _ he’s a bastard. He promised to help Arthur and this ridiculous little backwater town. And now… now he’s part of a scheme to rob it.

He hates Dutch. He rubs the wound on his shoulder through his shirt irritably and catches Arthur’s keen glare.

The sheriff knows, of course, that something has changed. He isn’t pressing the issue- yet. John knows it’s only a matter of time. They ate breakfast together in silence and now they’re sat cleaning weapons at their desks and trying to come up with a plan to locate Arthur’s missing friend Lenny.

“We should wait for your friend Charles to come back with information about the O’Driscolls. Especially if you think that’s where he’s ended up,” John says.

Arthur sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know that,” he replies slowly. “I do. I just hate the thought of Lenny out there… alone. Sufferin’. Because of me.”

“If they have hurt him, Arthur, it’s their fault- and theirs alone.” John wants to wipe the grim expression from Arthur’s face, wants to replace it with the soft smiles he offered last night.

Arthur shrugs. He pushes his soft hair back from his face and exhales loudly. “I hate this. I hate playing sheriff while people are actually in danger and there’s nothing I can do to help.”

“You ain’t  _ playin’  _ sheriff, Morgan. You literally stopped a bank robbery and saved a man’s life yesterday.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Fairly sure it was you who did that, Deputy Milton.”

A knock at the door startles them both. When it opens, the mayor’s daughter appears in a cloud of green skirts. She’s a vision of loveliness, pretty and proper, and John recognises the way she looks at Arthur.

“Miss Forrest,” Arthur greets, rising automatically. “Is everythin’ alright?”

She smiles. “Everything is fine, Arthur, as I keep telling you. I am merely fulfilling my promise to bring you and Deputy Milton some appropriate attire for tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evenin’?” John repeats.

Miss Forrest’s bright eyes are shining with mischief as she looks over to him. “For the festive soiree, Deputy Milton. I’m sure Sheriff Morgan was about to tell you right before I arrived.”

A soiree. Dancing. John feels sick at the thought of it. He catches Arthur’s eye, hoping to find some sympathy there, and sees the first suggestion of humour there that he’s seen all day.

Bastard.

If there’s a party, though… John might be able to slip out while the townsfolk- and the sheriff- are all busy. He could sneak into the bank and do what he needs to do, unchallenged.

“Sounds wonderful, Miss Forrest,” he says.

Arthur makes a small choking noise.

“Well, it’s nice to see some enthusiasm from one of you,” she smiles.

She gives Arthur a bundle of clothing, then hands one to John. He realises that he’s holding an expensive and very fancy suit.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow evening,” Miss Forrest says briskly, turning to leave. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

As the door closes behind her, John looks at Arthur to find the sheriff staring at him.

“What?”

“You’re bein’ oddly acquiescent about this whole thing,” Arthur drawls.

“Perhaps I love dancin’.”

Arthur snorts.

* * *

 

As the afternoon gives way to night, John disappears. Arthur wonders if he should follow him. There’s clearly something wrong with him.

Perhaps he’s just decided that he regrets last night. That would be understandable, wouldn’t it? They barely know each other, after all.

Arthur tries to lose himself in his journal, desperate to still his racing mind, trying to focus on Lenny. Where is he? Has he gotten himself tangled up with the O’Driscolls? Those degenerates are clearly up to something.

When John comes back, Arthur is sat cross-legged in bed, drawing a gun absentmindedly and thinking about what to do. He looks up, distracted, as his deputy enters- and freezes.

John has had his hair cut.

Gone are the long, wild tangles. His hair is short and soft, close to his head, accentuating the strong features of his face.

“Don’t stare,” John snaps. He’s blushing.

“John. You look lovely.”

The words seem to surprise John as much as they surprise Arthur, who feels himself growing as scarlet as his deputy.

“I… I thought it might be more appropriate. For tomorrow night.” John rubs his fingers through the short hair awkwardly.

Arthur slowly uncurls himself, rising to his feet. John is still standing close to the door, his dark eyes burning into Arthur with a look that is pure desire. Surely he wants Arthur. Why else would he be looking at him like this?

“You will be perfect tomorrow night,” Arthur tells him, and the words come out gruffly.

The office is dimly lit, the sky outside black and inky, the fire dying in the grate. As John swallows, shadows play across his face.

“You goin’ to dance with me tomorrow night?” he asks softly.

Arthur finds himself smiling back. “I think Miss Forrest is hopin’ that you'll dance with the other women, not with your ugly old boss.”

They're standing close enough to touch now, and Arthur reaches out to take John's hand.

“You aren't ugly.” John squeezes his fingers. “Old, sure. But not ugly.”

Arthur stares at John's lovely mouth. Caught in the half-light, John looks fragile and ethereal. Arthur wants to kiss him more than he wants anything else.

Even more than he wants to ask him what's going on between them.

“You keep talkin’ shit and I'm goin’ to have to shut your mouth up, Deputy.” He keeps the words light, but his meaning is clear.

John could stop all this now; he could step back, make a joke, and they would never cross this line.

But he doesn't.

He grins. “Sure your old body is up to the job, boss?” he breathes.

Arthur reaches up with his free hand and rests his palm against John's cheek. His skin is cool from the air outside. At the contact, John's huge eyes widen, and his mouth falls open, just a little, just enough for his breath to ghost across Arthur's throat.

Arthur lowers his mouth to John's and kisses him.


End file.
